What Could Have Been
by Sachita
Summary: It's a stormy summer in the London of 1954 and Minerva McGonagall is pondering her troublesome past and uncertain future while reading a letter she wrote to herself ten years ago. Written for the "A Letter From My Hogwarts Days" challenge. Some TRMM.


_Hi! This has been written for ReillyJade's "A Letter from My Hogwarts Days" Challenge over at the Harry Potter Fan Fiction Challenges Forum. _

_This might be considered a bit of an AU- the latest information on Minerva McGonagall's year of birth is that she was born in 1935, but I stuck to the old version, which said that she was born on October 4th, 1925. Also, I disregarded the fact that she was in a relationship with Dougal McGregor, a local Muggle. There is also mention of Tom Riddle/Minerva McGonagall in this piece.  
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_Disclaimer: I own nothing Harry-Potter related :) _

_Oh, and I'd like to apologise for my English, it's not my first language :) I hope you like it! :) Please tell me your thoughts.  
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_Sachita  
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><p><strong>::June 1st, 1944 ::<strong>

Dear Minerva,

Here I sit, on my bed in the Gryffindor Seventh-Year Girls' dormitory, writing this letter to you- to myself- and feeling just the slightest bit nostalgic.

This school has given me so much and it feels odd to be leaving it forever in a few weeks' time. However, I must say, I could have decided differently if I had wanted to.

Professor Dumbledore offered the position of Professor of Transfiguration to me a few weeks ago. He told me it would be an apprenticeship position for a few years until I could become a full teacher a few years later.

I said no.

But in case you have forgotten why, Minerva, let me enumerate the reasons why it would be a bad idea to have a version of us, no matter how mature she thinks herself to be- oh yes, self-delusion, I am good at that- teach at Hogwarts.

One- little children can be evil. Remember how you used the permanent pink spell on Abraxas Malfoy's hair in first year? He had to wait until it grew out because even St. Mungo's had no idea how to get rid of it.

Of course, it was a brilliant piece of magic but oh, the poor boy. Knowing yourself, you can probably practically see the sarcasm ooze from my quill as I write this. Someone who hates Muggleborns just because of their heritage does not deserve any better. In fact, why didn't you turn him entirely pink from head to toe?

And remember the time you charmed that Hufflepuff Beater's broomstick so it wouldn't stop whipping his behind all the way to the school because he insulted Poppy's honour? No-one insults my best friend without paying for it.

Anyway, I am digressing. You can see now why it would be a horrid idea to have you teaching anyone, although even Tom laughed at that broomstick joke. That would have been reason enough for me anyway to charm Macmillan's broomstick, just to hear him laugh.

Tom has grown so distant lately, ever since poor Myrtle's death. I wonder- does he blame himself for not stopping Hagrid's fascination with dangerous creatures earlier?

I still can't believe that Hagrid could have been responsible for the death of Myrtle. On the other hand, a full-grown Acromantula is nothing to joke about and I think Tom was right- Hagrid never meant for his pet to kill anyone.

Yet it did and Tom was certainly right for revealing Hagrid's pet as the culprit for the horrible happenings. A girl was killed after all!

But for some reason, I think that there is more to Tom's distance.

Could he be involved in something dire? I know he is not as charming and good as he would have the teachers believe. I even told him so. He laughed. He dabbles in the Dark Arts- that much I know. Tom is aware I know as much but he doesn't mind. Why? Well, you know why. I don't want to go to Professor Dumbledore with it because I don't have any proof.

Furthermore, I don't want to.

Yes, I am very conflicted regarding that decision, but I love Tom. His brilliance, his eloquence and his dry sarcasm. I must confess that he can convince me of his reasons every time I try to make him admit to having made mistakes. The Dark Arts have a certain draw to them- Oh, Professor Dumbledore would of course scold me if he ever knew of it, but I am curious. Is Light Magic the only way to enlightenment? Does concerning yourself with Dark Magic automatically make you a Dark Wizard?

But I would never do it- it's just like the pull of something forbidden that tears at me. The boundaries between Good and Evil are unrecognisable sometimes. Of course I would never stoop so low as to harm anyone just so I might further my knowledge. Tom scares me at times. Once I talked with him about this- he just said that some people deserve to be harmed. At this statement I know I should have left him immediately. But I can't. I love him too much and I fear he knows as much.

Maybe these fears are all unfounded and as hope grips me, I can't help but dream about what situation you might be in as you read this letter, Minerva.

Are you married? Do you have children? Is there a happy home you can go to, a happy home like you never had? No prejudiced mother who wants to place you in an arranged marriage just so the McGonagall pureblood line will be continued? No distant father? No cold Scottish manor that makes you feel as if you might burst with silent agony as you stare at cold walls?

I dream of a house in the Scottish Highlands. It has a rose garden and the view of a mountain lake in the distance. There is a small Muggle village nearby where you buy your groceries; the Muggle way. As you read this, you sit on the bed you share with your husband. The children have been put to bed and before you yourselves went to bed, you talked about your research and the places you want to visit in the near future. Places all over the world, colourful and different, filled with new experiences and new faces. Places where no one speaks English- places with wide skies and sunshine.

You glance up from this letter, now, to gaze at Tom's sleeping face. He has become happier, free of the anger and bitterness that filled his younger years and he has become a great wizard, researching things that even Professor Dumbledore has not looked into; making new discoveries that many wizards benefit from. You yourself have become a great witch as well, making independent decisions from your husband, although the two of you support each other in everything you do…

There is wetness on my face and I must stop, Minerva. It's blurring my sight.

You know why…and I don't want to write it down. I don't have to tell you why.

Times are hard right now, what with Grindelwald wreaking havoc on the Wizard World and the Muggle War that engulfs the entire Continent. These are uncertain times and more so for an unmarried woman at the tender age of eighteen as Mother would say. But tell me, when have you ever listened to Mother, Minerva? I firmly plan to take my future into my own hands.

There are many paths I could end up on. In fact I have a letter of acceptance for a position at the Department of Mysteries sitting right next to me. It is an interesting career prospect. Any you do know why you really don't want to become a teacher. It doesn't have anything to do with charming Abraxas Malfoy's hair (although that was good fun).

You know it is because you care too much and you would care too much about the children and I can't afford that right now, when I feel little more than a child myself.

For now, I should like to leave Hogwarts and see what life can offer me, far from pureblood prejudices and the propriety restrictions of society. Tom will be finished next year.

I honestly don't know what will happen to me and him, but I sense that we are on a path that leads nowhere. Or straight into hell?

Then again, Minerva, chin up, you know, like Alastor, that strange Gryffindor who is a few years younger than you always says. Chin up! I can hear his voice as I write these words. He wants to become an Auror, or so he says. I can certainly imagine it. Rumour has it he sleeps with an intruder-alarm-charm put on his bed. Given this paranoia he should become a quite formidable Auror, I imagine!

Whatever you do, Minerva, here is me hoping for your happiness. Chin up!

Love,

_Minerva_

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><p><strong>Summer 1954<strong>

Minerva McGonagall glanced at the aged parchment in front of her with a lump in her throat. She blamed the burning of her eyes on the harsh gust of air that had come from the opened window. It was a cold, rainy summer this year. London's summers were different from the Scottish highlands' summers and she was not sure she appreciated the difference, when London only served to remind her of the one she wished to forget.

Tom.

She got up slowly, feeling more like an old woman of eighty than her twenty-eight years and closed the window. She saw her reflection in the window pane; a severe-looking young witch with a tight black bun and closed her eyes in face of it, feeling again the sting of tears. What had happened to that girl who had wished to travel the world and savour its knowledge and sights? Oh, she had travelled the world and seen its wonders but she had grown tired of it after some time and had returned to her initial job at the Department of Mysteries.

Tom was long-lost to her, completely immersed in the Dark Arts. It had been her who had broken off the relationship. She could not love this man. He was nothing like her Tom had been. Or had it always been a mask to hide the monster beneath? A stubborn tear ran down her cheek and she brushed it away roughly. Naïve, that's what she had been.

Now, she was living in London and the job at the Department of Mysteries, although many might call it exciting, held nothing for her anymore. She itched to pass the knowledge she had gathered on to the younger generations…but there was also the matter of her pride.

And so here she was, stuck in a situation that seemed to be worsening each day, while she lived in the dull silence of her office where the soft pit-pat of raindrops was the only noise that could be heard. A sideways glance revealed that the letter from Albus was lying right where she had left it a week ago, right next to where she had dropped the letter of that girl she could never be again.

_Dear Minerva, _it said,

_I wish you to know that if you ever reconsider, the position of Transfiguration teacher is still open for you. Everyone I've found for the position doesn't have half your stature, Minerva. Know that it would make me feel a great measure of happiness if you were to return to Hogwarts. Don't feel like you have to reply immediately, the position shall be held open for you indefinitely._

_In friendship, _

_Albus Dumbledore_

Minerva ran her fingers over the parchment and her eyes wandered to her quill. Temptation was clearly in front of her and everything inside of her wanted to accept, yet…she still did not feel ready. Her pride had always been her greatest weakness or so Tom had told her once.

She sighed and sat down behind her desk. Tomorrow she'd reply to Professor Dumbledore's letter.

Tomorrow.

Carefully, she picked the letter of the young Minerva up to throw it with slow and deliberate consideration into the merrily-burning flames of the fireplace and just like that the last evidence of Minerva McGonagall's love for Tom Riddle was gone.

As the lively flames slowly died down and the last blackened pieces of the letter dissolved into nothingness she looked up.

In the dirty window pane she thought to have seen, for a second, the reflection of a little house in the Scottish highlands with a rose garden and the view of a mountain lake in the distance.

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><p><em>Minerva eventually accepted the position of Transfiguration Teacher in 1956.<br>_


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